


This Storm Between Us

by lady_needless_litany



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Drowning, Mild Language, Q's Family - Freeform, technomancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany
Summary: Q was quick, clever, adept. His knowledge of technology was nationally unrivalled. That was why MI6 had been so desperate to employ him. Except his skills were a little more unorthodox than anyone guessed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts).



> I’ve wanted to write technomancer!Q for a while, so I’m super happy that I got the opportunity to work with AsheTarasovich’s art (which you can find at the start of Chapter 1). Thank you for the amazing prompt!

It was like there was electricity in his bloodstream, crackling from one cell to another, illuminating him from the inside out. He felt disembodied, ethereal, yet connected to everything. He was flying.

It was agonising. Exhilarating. Terrifying. And natural, all at once.

Through it all, he had to remind himself to breathe.

_Okay. Think._ His mind was racing as fast as the magic. _Cameras. Find the cameras._

A moment of painful focus, then an image swam into view. It was grainy — _that’s the problem with CCTV_ — but it did the trick. It floated in his head, intangible and impossible. 

He could see 009 crouched behind a control panel, in a paramilitary base thousands of kilometers away, desperately trying to avoid being shot by three advancing figures clad in black. From the twisted expression on his face and the increasingly wild shots he was taking, Q wasn’t sure how much longer the man could hold on. Or if he was going to get out alive.

Which was problematic. Not only did Q want to avoid another death on his conscience, they couldn’t afford to let the base launch any of its weapons — they had reliable intel that some were bioweapons. 009 was supposed disabling the launch systems, giving MI6 enough time and enough information to alert the relevant military.

Of course, nothing was ever that simple. The whole affair had been rushed and scrambled, pear-shaped from the start. Q had recommended a drone strike, quick and clean, but the potential for collateral damage had been too high. Instead, they’d pulled 009 off surveillance in the capital city and sent him to investigate the base, in a smallish port city. And he’d gotten inside relatively easily, but then he’d tripped an alarm entering the control room and the security team was definitely of the _shoot now, ask questions later_ variety.

It had been then that Q had felt the beginnings of panic fluttering in his chest, a strange and unusual sensation for him. He was good at keeping a level head, but something here was screaming at him, insisting that he had to do something or it would all end badly. He’d laid his hands on either side of his computer, focused on the sounds coming through 009’s earpiece, and had allowed himself to slip into a trance.

That was why everything was all muddled.

Q’s gift had never been straight-forward, not in the slightest. He couldn’t explain why he could do what he did. He could barely explain what he did. It was a preternatural understanding, an ability to almost _feel_ technology. Binary was his mother tongue. There was also the unfortunate side effect of emotion-related static buildup. Sometimes, if he focused hard and committed enough energy, he could manipulate a piece of technology — hardware or software — without physically tinkering with it. That’s what he was attempting to do at that moment.

He gritted his teeth.

It was impossible. He was too far away; the system was too complex. There was only one thing he could do, really. 

He located an exit and released its electromagnetic lock, allowing it to swing open. He prayed that 009 would notice and be able to get to it in time.

But Q didn’t have any time to spare thinking about it. He was painfully aware that his access was growing weaker by the second. 

He channelled the power from the grid, from every outlet in the room, feeling it arc through the air and slam into the control panel. A massive surge of power — akin to a shockwave — tore through it, frying circuitry.

It also smashed Q’s connection with the base, abruptly ending his trance. He came back to himself with a gasp. “Shit.”

His sudden return to reality was marked by a surge of dizziness. He blinked it away, slowly, as his heart continued to pound. Thankfully, everyone else was focused on the limited information on the central display — MI6 hadn’t managed to access the CCTV, so no-one in the room had seen his stunt.

“Did he get out?” he asked to no-one in particular. He received no reply — there was no need. It was a sign of how frazzled his brain was that he forgot that 009’s vitals were on screen for everyone to see.

He looked up a moment later, remembering, and sighed in relief. 009’s were still there, despite everything. His heartbeat was crazy, but at least he had one.

A few tense minutes passed as they waited for 009 to report in. His earpiece, according to the readouts, was intact; it was just the fact that Double-Oh agents rarely made Q-Branch’s life easy by communicating in a timely manner.

“I’m clear of the building.” 009’s voice, slightly distorted, broke the silence.

Though professional, Q’s tone was laced with weariness. “Good. There’s a train leaving the station in ten minutes. It’s the quickest way to get you back to where you’re supposed to be. I’ll expect you to report in once you’ve returned.”

“Of course.”

With that, it was over.

He allowed himself to relax into his chair. Around him, people began to pack their things away, eager to get home to families and bed.

One minion — he couldn’t help it, that’s the word that came to mind when he looked at his staff — approached him. She was the one assigned to monitoring and reporting on that particular mission. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Shall I start the mission report now or wait until tomorrow morning?”

Q glanced up at the clock. It was almost midnight. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for a mission to run that late, but this one had taken a greater toll on him than most; he couldn’t face waiting, only to read and sign off on a lengthy report.

“Leave it until tomorrow, Nadiya,” he answered. “As long as it’s on my desk by the time tomorrow evening, everything’s fine.”

He didn’t miss the hastily suppressed relief in her eyes. He didn’t blame her — he could be a harsh taskmaster, especially when it came to working hours. “Alright. In that case, goodnight, sir.”

“’Night.”

She turned and headed back to her desk.

Q turned his attention to his desk, shuffling away the debris that had accumulated over the oast few hours: two empty mugs, a drained biro, several crumpled Post-Its.

“Unlike you,” a voice above him noted.

Q jumped a mile, head whipping around to find Bond standing behind him. He’d known that Bond was lurking in the back of the room, spectating, but the fact had slipped his mind. “Christ, you gave me a heart-attack. Anyway, what’s unlike me?”

“Packing up to go home as soon as a mission’s done.”

“It’s been a long day,” Q said defensively, aware that his usual habits made it a poor excuse. “Besides, it’s unlike you to hang around to watch someone else’s mission.”

“Moneypenny told me about it. I did some recon on that group a while ago — she thought I might found it interesting.”

“Did you? Find it interesting?” 

“Well, I imagine that was the most interesting thing 009 has ever done, not that that’s saying much.”

Q could never quite fathom the mild animosity between the two agents. He stood. “Well, look, I’d better get going-”

Q couldn’t help it — as he moved, he brushed against Bond. A spark jumped between them, shocking them both. He snatched his hand away, taking two steps back. His arms folded across his chest automatically, like a protective barrier. “Oh! Must be static buildup,” he lied. “My apologies, Bond.”

Bond’s expression had barely flickered, save a slight frown. It was an odd frown, not one of displeasure; it almost looked as if he was confused, or maybe suspicious. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied slowly. “No one’s tried to kill me via electrocution yet. It’s a new experience.”

The words were humourous, but the tone felt forced. Q dismissed the thought — he was reading into things that weren’t there, he told himself. It was just the residual magic in his body, making him feel jittery. “I suppose I’ll have to try harder, then, won’t I?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Well,” he said, stalling, trying to collect his thoughts. “Please excuse me, Bond. I - I’m rather tired after all that. Think I’ll head home.”

“I would’ve thought you were used to late nights,” Bond commented. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, of course, I’m fine.” Q brushed off his concerns. It sounded evasive, even to his own ears. “Just tired.”

Bond narrowed his eyes.

“Really,” Q reiterated. “Anyway, I’d better be going. Need to feed the cats.”

That was an outright lie. Q had built them an automated food dispenser as soon as he’d realised how long Q-Branch’s hours were. It was also a pathetic excuse, although it looked like Bond believed him.

“Sweet dreams, Q,” Bond said, sardonic wit not blunted by the late hour. Giving a cryptic smile, he turned sharply and made for the door.

As it shut behind him, leaving Q and two remaining minions behind, Q exhaled and pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Electricity,” he muttered to himself. It was a poor attempt at easing his guilt about lying, but it worked. “How cliché.”


	2. Chapter 2

Quite suddenly, Bond became something of a permanent fixture in Q-Branch.

Not wanting to cause conflict — he’d found that Bond could be entertaining company, when he wasn’t being an arrogant bastard — Q let it slide, at first. As the habit entered its second month, however, it seemed that it wasn’t a short-term peculiarity and he couldn’t help but mention it.

“Bond,” he greeted. It was lunchtime and the room was mostly devoid of people, but he was busy analysing the results of tests on a new prototype. It was finicky, repetitive work that left him unusually grateful for the distraction of Bond’s arrival. “Have you developed an interest in my department, for some arcane reason?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Whenever you’re not off on some exotic mission, you’re in here. It’s new. And you manage not to pester my staff all that often, which is, frankly, astonishing.”

 _Fair enough_ , Bond’s expression said. “Let’s say that I’ve found a new appreciation for the work that you do,” he replied smoothly.

Q quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. “I doubt that.”

Bond didn’t seem offended. He simply shrugged. “It was that mission that I watch — 009’s. It… piqued my interest.”

Flashing back to the mission in question, Q frowned. Occasionally, it still played on his mind: _I came so close to exposing myself._

Outwardly, he kept his voice light. “Yes, that was quite something. You know, we still don’t fully understand what caused the base to shut down. 009 was out of the room. And the army never shared their findings when they seized the place. It may have been something as simple as a power surge.” Q laughed. “It’s almost ludicrous, isn’t it? A weapons base taken out by a power surge.”

The man seemed pensive, speaking slowly. “‘Ludicrous’ is one word for it.”

 _He seems off today_. Q thought, mind spiralling in a thousand different directions to find a reason for his behaviour.

“Where did you learn to do all of this?” he asked, out of the blue. A stabbing gesture towards his laptop gave him a vague idea of what Bond was asking.

Q looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean? Design? Programming?”

“Technology, in general.”

He shrugged. “Oh, it always interested me. I used to love building things out of bits of scrap metal. I learnt to programme from a book that a relative bought me. I alway had a natural flair for it all, according to my parents.”

He smiled at his own words, at how simultaneous close and far they were to the truth. He’d said nothing false, but he’d omitted his parents’ careful tuition regarding magic and the years of practice in their cottage, causing accidental electrical fires and errant lightning.

Bond, knowing nothing of that, simply nodded. “Of course.”

But it seemed that he wasn’t finished. There was something strange in his eyes — suspicion or curiousity. Unsettlingly, Q couldn’t quite work it out. “You’re better than that, though,” Bond continued. “It’s clearly second-nature.”

The praise straightened his shoulders. “Oh, absolutely. It’s a massive part of me.”

It occurred to him, then, what a peculiar conversation this was. It was hugely personal and totally out-of-nowhere. Not Bond’s default style.

But Bond fell silent then. Without explanation, he wandered off to peer at plans for Q-Branch’s next generation of adapted Walther PPKs, which was now Bond’s preferred weapon. There was nothing that he could damage, though Q did briefly inspect the place to double-check, and his presence had become familiar enough that Q was able to return to his work.

Some moments later, the two minions that had still been at their desks excused themselves for lunch. Good-naturedly, Q waved away their offer to bring him back food.

Meanwhile, Bond was still perusing the blueprints tacked to one wall. As the door swung shut behind the departing minions, he planted himself back in front of Q’s desk.

Q looked up. “Can I help you, Bond?”

“You can.” He looked at Q, head-on, lancing him with an undiluted stare. “Allow me to be brutally honest. I don’t believe, not for a second, that the base was crippled by a random power surge. And when I brought you that radio the other day, it was completely broken-”

“The only thing wrong with it was a loose connection-” Q protested.

Bond persisted. “You knew that as soon as I gave it to you. You knew exactly which connection it was without looking.”

A horrible sensation dawned: Bond was getting awfully close to the truth, even if it was unknowingly and unintentionally.

“I’ve got decent instincts when it comes to things like that,” Q said. He was beginning to grow uncharacteristically flustered. He stood and walked to a nearby table on the pretext of searching through a stack of paperwork. “That’s my job.”

“What about the fact that you seem to be able to fix things just by touching them? Or the fact that you always know exactly what’s wrong with a piece of kit? Or the way that it’s sometimes like you can see what’s going on around me during a mission, even if you’ve got no visual feed?”

“Instincts,” he repeated weakly. “Instincts and common sense.”

Bond sensed he was onto something, the analytical look in his eyes reminding Q that he had been selected for his intelligence and observational skills, just as much as for his ruthlessness. Shaking his head, he spoke definitively. “That’s not all, though, is it? There’s something else.”

_No beating around the bush, then. I guess I’m all in._

He squeezed his eyes shut. “The closest word for it is ‘technomancy.’”

It had always frustrated Q that he didn’t have more solid vocabulary to describe his skills. There was no wealth of research out there, explaining how and why it worked.

“Meaning?” Bond’s tone lacked the judgement and the scepticism that Q had expected, which was enough for him to open his eyes again.

“I suppose — I suppose you could call it magic, if you were that way inclined.” Q couldn’t remember ever being so uncomfortable, fight-or-flight instincts prickling, panic beating in his abdomen like a trapped bird. “It’s a family thing. It just so happens that technology is my specialty.”

“If that’s the case…” Bond had the look of someone who didn’t know whether or not to believe that something was true. Which was fair enough, Q reasoned, since it wasn’t every day that you found out that magic was real. “That thing you did during 009’s mission — that kind of skill’s useful in this line of work. Yet that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you do something like that. Why?”

“Someone’s got to keep you lot in a job,” he joked, trying to alleviate the tension. It fell flat and he rapidly grew more serious again. “It’s exhausting. If you overstretch yourself, it can be very dangerous. Besides, the static shock I gave you accidentally? If I’d not had enough control, I could easily have shocked you at a high enough voltage to kill you.”

“How does that work, then? The electrocution, that is.”

Q sighed. How Bond was finding this amusing was beyond him, though it helped to set him at ease. “The static only happens when I’m particularly tired or emotional or if I’ve been doing magic for a long period of time.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Bond shook his head. “Magic. Insane.”

He received a snort in reply. “Hardly, compared to the stunts you’re always pulling. I’ve often thought you must have some charm on you, for luck or for protection. Else you’d be well past your sell-by date.”

Bond rolled his eyes — Q wasn’t sure whether it was his theory or his phrasing that he disapproved of. “The rest of your family? Also magic?”

“Yep. Mum’s into scrying, tarot, that kind of thing. Dad’s into herbs and cooking. Obsessed with his garden.”

“At this point, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“To be fair,” Q said dryly. “This is a surreal experience for me as well. You’re the first person outside my family and our little community to know. I didn’t expect you’d believe me.”

“I’m still not sure if I do. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

He felt, suddenly, that he needed Bond to believe him. “I’ll prove it. Test me and I’ll prove it.”

Bond cast an eye around the room. His sight alighted on a padlock, fastening shut someone’s desk drawer. Bond ignored the oddness of having your desk drawer padlocked — this was Q-Branch, after all.

He walked over to it, four or five metres away from Q. He spoke conversationally, like they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “What’s your stance on padlocks?”

“Easy,” Q replied instantly. He extended his awareness, sensing the lock’s cool metal, gauging how the teeth and disks fitted together. “The combination’s 5-8-9-2. His child’s birth date, if I remember rightly.”

“What, no spells? Incantations?”

Almost ruefully, Q raised one corner of his mouth in a smile. “Not my style. I just go for it, no technique, which always drives my mother up the wall.”

Bond seemed to accept that, but gave him a measured look nonetheless. It appeared that he had yet to be fully convinced. He leaned down, twisted the dials into the right order. _Click_. It sprung open cleanly.

He wished he could see Bond’s face as it did so, even knowing that he would refuse to express anything.

The man in question still had his back to him, though he had drawn himself up to his full height and was busy fiddling with the lock. Changing the combination. Another click, presumably the lock closing again, then he turned again. “What about now?”

The lock was resting in Bond’s palm, held close to his body. Again, Q concentrated on it. This time, he went one step further: he coaxed the mechanical parts into movement, spinning the numbers into the correct order, without ever touching it.

It was the work of fifteen seconds or less. _Click._

“The code,” Q informed him calmly. “Is 4-2-1-0. I assume that’s meant to translate to ‘DB10’ — the prototype that you so kindly parked at the bottom of the Tiber.”

Hearing his own words parroted at him, Bond’s eyes betrayed a trace of humour. 

To one side, the door suddenly opened, admitting a minion who suddenly looked like his was regretting his decision to return from lunch early. “Afternoon,” he mumbled.

“Afternoon,” Q replied, taking pity on him. Bond, less inclined to mercy, glowered at him instead.

Bond looked at his watch. “I’d better go. M insists on organising meetings for the most inconvenient times and Moneypenny’ll scalp me if I’m late.”

Q, all too familiar with both M’s scheduling and Moneypenny’s sharp tongue, nodded. “Yes, I wouldn’t cross her.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Bond placed lock on the top of the desk it had been safeguarding, much to the future befuddlement of its owner. A few steps took him to where Q was still hovering next to a table, though he went completely still as Bond approached. Affectedly discreet — though, in reality, the other person in the room was doing his best _not_ to hear or see anything they were doing — Bond invaded Q’s space in order to whisper to him. 

“You can consider me convinced,” he murmured. Q felt the air brush over his ear and he had to force himself not to react.

He chose not to reply, either. It was a strange culmination of a thoroughly weird episode, and Q really wasn’t sure how he was supposed to handle it.

Bond retreated, retracing his path to the exit.

Still unsettled by Bond’s behaviour, Q unglued his lips. “Bond!” he called after him.

Bond paused at the door. “Q?”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Q said firmly. “You just can’t.”

Bond being Bond, he just smirked. “Cross my heart.”


	3. Chapter 3

His words to Bond about being magically protected had initially been joking, but it didn’t take long for them to settle more deeply into Q’s brain. It would, after all, explain a lot. Even amongst the Double-Oh agents, Bond was an anomaly. A normal person simply didn’t have as many close brushes with death as Bond and come out nearly unscathed.

Q had learnt to trust his instincts, and this had begun to bother him. He couldn’t help but constantly turn it over in his mind, which was both irritating and dangerously distracting. Fretful, he turned to the two people he could rely on for sound advice.

Q video called his parents a minimum of once a week. They lived in the countryside, too far away to visit frequently, and Q wasn’t ashamed to admit that he missed them. They’d been a close family unit when he was living at home and they were still the first people he turned to for advice. And they knew all about his work, which was a relief.

As was his usual practice, he called them in the early evening.

His mother picked up on the second ring.

After the standard pleasantries, Q delicately raised his concern. “Could you help me with something?”

“I can try.”

“There’s a…” Q raised his eyebrows heavenward as he tried to define his relationship with Bond. “...a colleague that I’m worried about. Could you do some scrying?”

She nodded, surprised but game. “A name would be helpful, love.”

“Bond. James Bond.”

“Alright. Give me a few minutes to set up.”

Q walked through to the kitchen, placing the tablet on a convenient stand on one counter. He left it there, his mother’s puttering still perfectly audible, and began rummaging through the freezer.

As he was in the midst of doing so, a different voice emerged through the speaker. “What are you doing?”

Q pulled his head out of the freezer. “Hi, Dad. I’m trying to find some soup — I made a batch last weekend, but I can’t find it, not for the life of me.”

He continued rooting around, his father looking on with a touch of amusement.

Almost at the back of the fridge, he was beginning to despair, until he recognised the right tub. “Got it!” he exclaimed, slamming the plastic box onto the counter with a little too much enthusiasm. An assortment of other containers had been pulled out during his quest; he jammed them back into the freezer haphazardly. _Tomorrow’s problem,_ he told himself.

His father, ever the cook, couldn’t help being nosy. “What’s in it, then?”

“Lentils, mostly.”

“Good! Lots of nutritional-”

His mother shushed the two of them. She couldn’t focus while they were chattering away.

He couldn’t see what she was doing, but he’d seen the process often enough to guess. She owned a black, ceramic basin that she filled with water and placed on a low table. She would sit in front of it, cross-legged, and lean over it, falling into a trancelike state. While Q was no stranger to magical trances, he’d never gotten the hang of scrying. According to his mother, she could see images form on the water’s surface, from which she could glean information about people and places and events — even the future.

Meanwhile, on a rather less interesting note, Q stuck his soup in the microwave and set it to defrost.

By the time it resembled a liquid and he had transferred it to a saucepan, his mother had reappeared.

“It’s odd,” she told him, frowning. “I can’t see him.”

His father, off-screen, chipped in. “Can’t see him because he doesn’t exist? Or can’t see him because he’s protected?”

Surprised, Q laughed shortly. “Trust me, he’s real.”

His mother rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s probably protected. Some kind of charm.”

 _Aha. I was right,_ Q thought, a little smug.

“Right. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure that he’s not capable of doing that for himself, so who did? Can you tell?”

“No, I can’t. It seems to be strong, comprehensive… so I’d hazard a guess that it was someone that knew what they were doing and spent time thinking it out.”

Q was more intrigued than anything else. “Is there any way of finding out who it could be?”

“Not as far as I know, love. Sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t worry. It’s not of paramount importance.”

“Alright. Let me know if I can help with anything else,” she said. “I ought to go before your father chases me out of the house. We’ve got dinner booked at that new restaurant that I told you about last week.”

“Have a good evening.”

“You too. Love you!”

He ended the call with a tap on the screen, abandoning his phone on the kitchen worktop. On the stove, his soup was bubbling away happily, so he poured a portion into a bowl and deposited himself on the sofa.

The first sip burned his tongue. He winced, putting his spoon down, and turned on the TV to distract himself from the sensation.

It couldn’t be Bond himself, Q was sure of that. His surprise at Q’s revelations had been genuine.

There were three main options: a relative, a friend, or a lover.

Family was a tough one. Bond was an orphan — there was no one living that Q could investigate. His parents, surely, would have mentioned it if they knew of a connection between Bond and a magic user. On the other hand, there was no singular, cohesive magical community nor a record of magic users. Besides, ‘Bond’ was a common name.

A parent would be an obvious candidate for going to such lengths; Q pondered the possibility for longer than he’d care to admit. Eventually, though, he discounted it: Andrew and Monique Bond had died when James was eleven, meaning that he would likely have some memory of magic, even if steps had been taken to hide it from him.

Friends were easier to estimate. Sure, Bond had a long list of acquaintances and known associates, some of which could probably be considered friends. But none of them were in Bond’s life regularly enough to suggest that they would go to such lengths.

That left lovers. It was a daunting category to consider — Q wasn’t sure how many there had been. He definitely didn’t have enough time to investigate them all to see if they exhibited indicators of having the right skill set.

Had there been any that stood out? That had seemed to care about Bond enough to go to such effort?

Madeleine Swann was the only obvious contender. Even then, her and Bond had parted after only a few months, returning to Sölden and London, respectively and separately. There was no reason to believe that they were still in contact or that there was any latent romance remaining.

Q sighed. By that point, his soup has cold, his tongue was still prickling, and he had no idea what was on the television in front of him.

He’d hit a brick wall. He was out of ideas. It was an uncommon feeling for him, which only double his determination to get to the bottom of it.

 

* * *

 

Luckily, the sleeping mind works wonders. He woke with an inkling, a seed, a spark.

Fuelled with a raging curiosity, he got to work a full hour earlier than normal, which gave him time to pull up the files he needed. They were extremely sensitive files, which could only be accessed on authorised machines that were physically within the confines of MI6.

There were things that Q needed to know about his agents, things that he’d learnt when he’d first gotten clearance to read the personal files of the 00 Agents.

There was 009’s child, only three, living with their mother and unaware of their parentage. There was 004’s sister and her family, who knew about her job and loved her anyway. There was 003’s real name, which involved several titles and a family pedigree dating back to the twelfth century. And there was Vesper Lynd. The woman that 007 had loved, lost, and never forgiven.

In regards to her, the information in Bond’s file had been a little sparse, so he’d tracked down the mission file. It was utterly riveting — like something you’d read in a book — as well as completely heartbreaking. There were several recordings attached to it — the coroner’s verbal summary, a cut-short mission debrief with Bond, and a lengthier interview with the former M. Q re-listened to all three, but it was only the last one that provided anything interesting. It certainly wasn’t standard practice for M to have to be interviewed; Q assumed it was because Vesper Lynd was a government employee as well, with the Treasury probably insisting on some kind of investigation.

_The interviewer’s voice was flat and clinical. “Why was Vesper Lynd brought into the case?”_

_M’s reply was terse. “She was a representative of the Treasury. Her job was to oversee the money.” Q found listening to her strangely unsettling, but he ploughed on through the recording._

_“Was Ms. Lynd aware of the stakes of this mission, its critical nature, and the full extent of Agent 007’s remit?”_

_M’s growing frustration with the questions was audible. “Yes.”_

_“And when she was-”_

_“Look, you already have all of this information,” M cut in. “I really don’t see why this is necessary.”_

_“We’re just corroborating facts.”_

_“I don’t have time for that.”_

_There was no change in the interviewer’s inflection, where someone with less self-control may have allowed annoyance to seep in. “Very well, ma’am. One final question: how would you describe Ms. Lynd?”_

_The question was barbed, of course. It wanted to know whether M had had any inkling of her betrayal._

_“There was never any indicator that she was in the hands of the enemy, if that’s what you mean. You might prefer to ask Bond that question, anyhow,” she snapped. Her voice softened infinitesimally as she continued. “I didn’t know her, at all, but she struck me as intelligent. Confident. Extremely competent.”_

Q mulled over those words. _Intelligent. Confident. Extremely competent._

His mother had suggested, he recalled, that the charm was the work of someone skilled. Vesper Lynd seemed to fit that profile.

To an outsider, it might not seem possible that she had had the ability, yet had allowed herself to be blackmailed, captured, and killed. To him, it made perfect sense.

Q’s technomancy, with its electrifying and occasionally explosive side-effects, was rather unusual. In his experience, most people’s magic manifested in a much subtler way; Vesper, therefore, could have been knowledgeable and powerful in her field, but still as vulnerable to violence as a normal person.

And she would have had plenty of time to cast a protection charm: when she first met Bond, to ensure that he would be able to fulfil his role in the plot, or when she fell in love with him, or when she left him in their hotel room in Venice. Perhaps, even, in the last moments of her life, as she was drowning. Perhaps with her very last lungful of air.


	4. Chapter 4

To tell him or not to tell him?

Q was sure he was right. It made sense.

Not telling Bond felt like lying by omission — he believed that Bond had truly loved Vesper and it seemed only fair that he knew that she had loved him, too. Loved him enough to weaken herself, to knowingly leave herself exposed.

At the same time, Vesper had been years ago. Some part of Bond was still scarred and always would be, but the intervening time had allowed some of the pain to fade. To remind him of Vesper would be to deliberately revive that pain.

At any rate, he figured that it wasn’t a pressing issue, which left him free to agonise over it indefinitely, as life otherwise continued as normal.

There was a second source of consternation, too, something that had taken a while to come to his attention: the fact that Bond, a man who was smart and dangerous and who did as he pleased, knew Q’s greatest secret. If Bond were to divulge that information, the ramifications could be colossal. He had to stop himself imagining all the different ways it could go horribly wrong.

But he couldn’t help it — every time he saw Bond, his mind spiralled. He became jittery and jumpy and defensive. And Bond didn’t miss it.

“You’ve been acting differently lately,” Bond stated, one day, when he was watching Q read through a stack of recent reconnaissance information for 005’s next mission. “It’s almost like you’re nervous.”

Q dismissed the idea. “You’re imagining things.”

That was, of course, entirely false. In the last week and a half, Q had noticed the change in his own behaviour. He’d even admitted to himself that it was poisoning a relationship that had been teetering on the edge of friendship — possibly something more, on Q’s part, though he was sure that it was unreciprocated.

Bond’s reply was firm. “I’m not.”

Q sighed. “Look, Bond. I don’t know what to tell you. I just feel a little off.”

“Something’s not right,” Bond maintained. He narrowed his eyes. “Unless I’ve done something — said something — that’s made you act like this around me.”

“No, no. It’s nothing you’ve done.”

Bond seized those words. He pulled up a chair, cringing at the sound its wheels made, and sat directly in front of Q. “If it’s not me, what is it?”

Q couldn’t recall ever seeing Bond act like this — so persistently caring, like a proper friend. Like a proper _normal person_.

“I guess it’s to do with you,” Q relented. He moderated what he said, aware of that the room was full of people, even if those people were doing their best to ignore them. “Since our conversation, I’ve been… worried.”

Again, the thought of Vesper popped into his mind, though he decided against it. The time wasn’t right.

“Surely, I should have been the worried one? Given that I had my worldview radically shifted.”

“Yes, but-” For a tense moment, Q deliberate over what to tell Bond. The last thing he wanted was to give Bond an idea of his power, if he wasn’t aware of it. At the same time, a large part of him wanted to be truthful. It told him that Bond was trustworthy, that he wouldn’t considered betraying his trust, that he was far too stubborn and, oddly, principled to do that. It told him that he would regret it if he lied and allowed their burgeoning relationship to founder. 

For once, he allowed that more emotive segment of him to win. Biting the bullet, he resumed, lowering his voice. “You literally have my life on a string right now. A word about this to anyone and my life, particularly my job, is over.”

Bond took a moment to process what he’d said, fixing Q with a thoughtful stare. “There’s a number of things you’ve missed here.”

Q folded his arms. “Oh? Pray, tell.”

“Firstly, no one would ever believe me,” Bond’s tone was light, intended to reassure. “I’d be committed to a mental institution.”

“Probably true, but not really a comfort. And given your track record, anything is possible.”

“Secondly, I don’t strive to be an awful person, contrary to common opinion.”

Q had no response to that, and Bond ploughed on anyway.

“And, third, you have my life on a string, too.” Bond’s final statement had a certain heaviness to it. “Every time I’m out in the field and you’re in my ear, I’m putting my life in your hands.”

They were beginning to draw odd looks at this point. The others in the room, only able to catch snippets of their conversation, were variously confused, concerned, or frustrated.

In the interests of maintaining their privacy, he suggested that they moved outside. Sharing Q’s sense of discomfort — he was a spy, after all — Bond agreed.

They ended up in a stretch of corridor just outside Q-Branch. It was, at that moment, deserted and Q knew that the standard CCTV cameras there didn’t have the ability to record audio. He’d still wipe the footage, of course, but he liked the additional layer of security.

Q leant against the wall, while Bond occupied the middle of the corridor. For a stilted moment, they stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak first. 

Q caved first. He pushed his glasses up. “I - I know what you're saying, I do. But it's different.”

“I’m aware. I'm not dense,” Bond retorted quietly. “But you're missing the point.”

He exhaled, trying to contain his frustration. “And what point is that?”

“The fact that you can trust me.”

He didn't think he'd ever heard Bond say anything so un-Bond-like. Trust wasn't something that came easily in their industry.

He really didn't know how to reply. “I-” he cut himself off, hopeless.

“Is it so hard to believe that I could like you?” Bond persisted, stung. “That I view you as someone I’d want to protect? To assist?”

“Not unbelievable,” Q replied quickly, sensing the wound that his words had caused and feeling a surge of guilt. “Just unexpected.”

Bond didn’t immediately retaliate, so he hurriedly expanded. “It’s just that you’re not usually the cuddly, protective type. And I can’t quite work out why I’d be an exception to that.”

“As I said, you've kept me alive through everything. I owe you. Besides-”

It was at that point that Bond decided that words weren’t getting him anywhere.

He surrendered to his instincts and leant forward, hands moving to grip Q’s shoulders, and pressed their lips together.

It was totally unexpected, which made it awkward at first. As Q’s surprise melted away, however, he angled his head to make it more natural. And the fact that Q was already standing close to the wall made life much easier - shifting so their combined weight was supported by the wall was a simple manoeuvre.

Swept up in the kiss, Q didn’t notice the tingling that was spreading across his torso or tge way that the hair on his arms stood up.

He didn’t notice any of it, not until a spurt of electricity surged between them, springing from Q’s body to Bond’s, at every point of contact. 

As they reacted, shocked in both senses of the word, they split apart.

“Sorry,” Q mumbled, going red. “It’s emotion-related.”

Bond chuckled. Relievingly, he seemed genuinely unconcerned. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

Q thought about replying, but couldn’t summon an adequate response, not for the life of him. Instead, he kissed Bond again.

When Bond withdrew, he had a surprisingly serious expression. “So,” he murmured, lips still distractingly close to Q's. Given Q's fluttering pulse, Bond's level tone was almost frustrating. “Do you want to go out to dinner sometime?”

Q laughed, a little breathless. “That's the wrong way ’round, you know. Dinner usually comes first.”

“You know me, Q. I don't do things the way other people do.”

“True, true. That's what makes you such a pain in the neck.” Any venom was negated by the fond smile that accompanied it. “But — yes, I will.”

“Good.” Bond's face creased into a satisfied smile, one that reminded Q of a cat who’d gotten the cream. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

He stepped back, offered an arrogant nod, and strode off down the hallway.

Once he was out of sight, Q relaxed and slumped against the wall. 

_Me and Bond,_ Q thought. _Who’d have guessed?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blergh, I really can’t write kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine the Q-Branch scenes taking place in a room similar to the white one in Skyfall (with the screen and the desks), but attached to the workshop that we see in Spectre.


End file.
